


Mars

by Vera



Category: Smallville
Genre: Blow It With Feeling Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-18
Updated: 2004-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:57:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>When Clark thought about it he thought of the angle, mostly.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mars

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the [Blow It With Feeling Challenge](http://www.slashaholics.org/thamiris/bj/home.htm). My emotion was disconnection.

When Clark thought about it he thought of the angle, mostly. He'd practice tipping his head back and opening his mouth wide. He thought of being on his knees, looking up, mouth full, taking it in slowly and thoroughly because there were advantages to being able to hold your breath for a long, long time and surely pleasing a lover wasn't a wrong use of his abilities. Sometimes he'd look down at himself, imagining smoothness instead of his own thick hair, paleness instead of his dark blush. He imagined his eyes closed and his lips tight. He imagined his eyes open and his mouth loose. He imagined Lex's voice and whispered to himself, Clark. He squeezed and came and slumped against the bathroom wall.

 

 

More soft paper products died in the pursuit of mopping up this ordinary vice than meteor rock mutants suffer to hide his other secret.

 

 

Back in bed he couldn't sleep. Before he met Lex, jerking off at night would lay him out cold, asleep and dreamless. After Lex, jerking off sometimes left him restless, wired. On nights like this, he'd discovered, only running helped.

 

 

Tonight he wasn't going to run away. Tonight he was going to run to something.

 

 

*****

 

 

Lex's coffee was cold; a thin rim of brown marked the edge of the mug. The cafe was a quarter-full of Smallville youth ignoring him. Two waitresses perched on stools by the counter folding serviettes and sorting cutlery. The third was wiping down counters.

 

 

He sat at his usual table, papers spread out before him. Apart from being served, he'd been uninterrupted. He was looking over the work he'd already completed for the third time. It was harder to read under the ambience-creating night-time lighting than it had been when the sunshine had been long, bright and warm through the windows.

 

 

Every time the door opened a curl of cool air brushed his scalp. When he looked up this time he saw the last group of laughing teenagers leaving.

 

 

He checked his watch, shuffled his paperwork into its folder and signalled for his bill.

 

 

Lex took the long way home. Flat, empty fields looked disturbingly like moonscape caught in the high beam as the road curved. He passed them too fast to make out detail, only flat and more flat, occasionally just ploughed and so more disturbingly shadowed. Even the fences weren't as high as his car.

 

 

Humming wheels on tarmac gave way to the greeting of crunching gravel as he turned in the gates. Remote control buttons opened and closed the doors. He didn't bother with the garage lights but made his way across the yard to the door by starlight.

 

 

He was almost on top Clark before he saw him, a tall shadow in the darkness of the porch. Clark grasped his wrist to steady him, broad hand on his skin, holding his bones. Clark's breath was warmth across his ear and nape.

 

 

"Where have you been, Lex?"

 

 

He wanted to step back but didn't. "Isn't it a bit late for a social call?"

 

 

Clark shook his arm, a swift but gentle jerk that made him stumble closer. Clark smelled like the night, clean and earthy.

 

 

"I was just out. Thought I'd drop by."

 

 

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you wander Kansas by night?"

 

 

"Does anything surprise you?"

 

 

Being alive after crashing my car into a river. Finding you half naked in a corn field. You.

 

 

"No. A Luthor is always prepared."

 

 

"Isn't that Boy Scouts?" Clark's fingers were moving gently on his forearm.

 

 

"Boy Scouts and Luthors. We have a lot in common."

 

 

"You do?" Clark's hand moved sure and warm up his arm, long fingers wrapped themselves around his biceps. "I guess you know how to tie all kinds of knots?"

 

 

"I've come to appreciate the value of restraint. What are you doing here, Clark? Won't your mother be worried?"

 

 

Clark wasn't looking at him, he was watching his own hand, starlight pale against the night-washed grey of Lex's shirt. Empty fields.

 

 

"She doesn't know."

 

 

Clark is made out of Kansas landscape, shadow and starlight, alien and cool. He's right up against Lex, heartbeat knocking between Clark's hand and Lex's arm, the air warming between them. This is not what he wanted. This is not what he's been waiting for. This is not happening.

 

 

"Go home, Clark." Go home.

 

 

Clark was looking at him then, eyes like stars and, like an avalanche falling, like a feather drifting down he was lower and lower again. Clark was on his knees and Lex's pants, his underwear, his uncertain hands were no barrier. Clark's mouth was open, his eyes were open. His mouth was closed around Lex, his eyes shut.

 

 

"Clark," Lex whispered, feeling the cold on his scalp, the ghosts of Clark's hand on his arm, the heat on his cock. "Clark," he said.


End file.
